


At rest in the hollows that rustle between

by Beleriandings



Category: Torchwood
Genre: Brothers, Childhood, Dramatic Irony, Flashbacks, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-10
Updated: 2020-04-10
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:40:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23583997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beleriandings/pseuds/Beleriandings
Summary: Gray can't sleep.
Comments: 12
Kudos: 24





	At rest in the hollows that rustle between

**Author's Note:**

> As per Big Finish audio canon (for those who haven't listened) Jack's birth name was Javic Piotr Thane.

It was late. Gray knew this because the first moon had already set past the window, the second beginning to rise, the faint pinprick of the tiny third moon just touching the corner of the high window. He liked to watch the moons, when he couldn’t sleep; his bunk alcove, carved into the thickness of the wall, was just at the right height to peer out and see the window across from him, if it was a clear night and he left the folding shutter open a crack.

He watched the faint, pale orange oval – nearly full today – rise by the moment. This moon had been Gray’s favourite for as long as he could remember; he loved the colour of it, like the sticky-sweet sand pears that grew inland in the summer. He liked to see it before he went to sleep, except sometimes he was too tired and dropped off before it rose into the sky.

Not tonight, though; the story his mother had told him before he’d gone to bed was rattling around his head, keeping him awake. Too often, it was the same story, or one like it. It scared him, even now.

It was supposed to though, he knew; all the children of Boeshane knew it, this story. He tried to imagine ships descending through the clouds and coming down over the ocean. It had happened, his mother had told him once. It was while she was pregnant with Gray and when Javic was very little. But they’d passed over then, she had told them.

Gray’s teacher in school said they wouldn’t always do that.

Almost the first lesson he’d had, had been about what to do if they were attacked. Gray knew there’d been a war here once, years ago, and now there wasn’t a war but there were still raiders who came here in their ships.

There was a particular way people referred to the creatures, who didn’t have a name in any language Gray knew, or wanted to know. _Them_ , people called them, but with a wary glance at the sky. Everyone knew what you meant, when you said it like that.

 _They_ came from the sea, they said, coming down out of orbit out of range of the guard tower at the supply port. _They_ came in out of the sea-fog to raid the village. Cloudy days were particularly dangerous, because you couldn’t see them coming. If _they_ came, run inland, they said. Find cover, and don’t get separated from your family.

 _They_ always came for the children first.

It was a familiar lesson to Gray; it had been drilled into him from the day he’d started school, and before that, by his mother and father, who used to question him and Javic about it before they let them out to play on the breakwater.

Javic always complained; he knew it already, he said. He’d look after Gray. It would be okay.

Gray always fidgeted, in those moments; on one hand, he wasn’t a baby anymore. He wanted to run with his big brother, to be fearless and to splash and play in the shallow water on the beach or jump down off the flood barrier that ran along the peninsula, protecting the houses from the worst storms.

But he was secretly glad, too. Even if he knew he was safe, he liked to hear it repeated.

Tonight, Gray couldn’t sleep. It wasn’t that he wasn’t tired; his eyes felt sandy, prickling with sleep. But something made him keep glancing to the window, eyes following the slow progress of the moons.

He peered around the edge of his alcove, reaching out a hand and watching a sliver of pinkish moonlight play across his skin in the stillness.

Quiet didn’t mean anything, Gray had been taught. If _they_ came, then you’d see them before you heard them, because light travelled faster than sound. If you waited until _they_ got close enough so you could hear their ships, then you were doomed already.

Stillness never did mean safety.

In the lower bunk alcove, he could hear Javic’s sleepy breathing, not quite a snore but not quite not one either. Gray curled up in his blankets, listening to it for a while, letting the familiar sound settle around him; he’d been going to sleep to the sound of his brother’s breathing for almost as long as he could remember.

But still, he couldn’t sleep. Frowning and pushing out his lip in a pout, Gray gathered up his blanket around himself like his father’s overlarge duststorm cloak, and climbed down the foothold ladder by touch alone.

He climbed into Javic’s alcove, perching on the edge and poking his brother’s arm before burrowing down amongst the blankets. It was very warm, and Javic didn’t wake up; sometimes he woke up, sometimes he made a fuss and pushed Gray out, told him to leave him alone. In summer, told him he was too warm, that he clung like one of the rock-stickers that lived in the tide pools around the other side of the bay.

But not tonight. Tonight, Javic merely rolled to the side, one arm wrapping heavy around Gray’s shoulders and muttering in his sleep as he kicked off half his blanket.

Gray tucked his face into Javic’s sleep shirt, listening to his brother’s heartbeat, his breathing, evening out as he dropped back into a deeper slumber again.

Gray felt safe, here. They were both safe, for tonight at least.

And after a little while, Gray was asleep too, their breaths like overlapping ripples on a calm, moonlit sea.

**Author's Note:**

> So originally this little thing was going to be a flashback scene from my fix-it AU fic [Just This Once](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21618322/chapters/51549379), but 1) it sort of broke the flow of the story and 2) I think it works well as a little ficlet in its own right, especially since this is also my headcanon for canon-verse. So have some sweet sleepy Boeshane kids, with a small sprinkling of horrible dramatic irony <3  
> The title is a line from Rudyard Kipling's _Seal Lullaby_ , which also has a very lovely choral arrangement by Eric Whitacre.


End file.
